


The Drag

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Implied AFAB Bloodhound but it's really not that clear, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 06:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18244262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Bloodhound misses the drag.





	The Drag

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little interlude.
> 
> Listen, I love my other Miragehound fanfic, with like, thirty chapters that is literally longer than my actual novel. 
> 
> But it was pretty tame compared to what the horny quarter of my brain is thinking, so I had to do it for myself.

Sometimes, late at night, when they are alone, they imagine they can still feel the drag. 

When he's away, visiting his mother, looking for clues that could help him find his brothers, or simply traveling, fostering friendships and necessary alliances through out the system, and they're missing him, and struggle to sleep, as they often do, their eyes flutter open.

They search the darkness, listen closely for his slow, deep breathing, try to feel his warm breath on the side of their face. 

Try to imagine his arm around them, the way they had grown accustomed to. 

Before they met Elliott in the ring, and put a bullet in his leg, they hadn't felt the drag in a long time.

The drag of a slick tongue against their ear. 

The drag of a palm over their neck, cradling their chin.

They stare into darkness, and try to breathe, try to calm the rapid beat of their heart, and try to remember the drag of Elliott's lips against the curve of their jaw, rough the days when they don't leave the house, and he waits a while to shave. The tickle of his five o'clock shadow, the brush against their neck when his mouth sucks bruises into their skin. 

When they're feeling most vulnerable, awake at four a.m., feeling the shadows reach out for their body and their thoughts, clouding their heart with unease, they imagine his body on top of theirs. The drag of his chest against theirs, bare as the day they were born. 

Depending on their mood, sometimes Elliott is just on top of them, smiling down, peppering their face with wet, sloppy kisses, embarrassing them as though someone can see, the skin around his eyes wrinkled so affectionately that they feel like their heart is about to burst. There's an unbearable sweetness to moments like these, almost as though two cold blooded murderers experiencing something so cloyingly, affably human is too much for their sense of decency to handle with regret, so instead it substitutes that tapered emotion with something guaranteed to ache for longer. 

But other times, Elliott isn't on top of them, lazily waiting for the morning to turn to afternoon, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, but satisfied only with lavishing them with kisses, and nothing else.

Other times, late at night usually, and only occasionally in the morning, he is moving. 

Bloodhound arches their back against the mattress when Elliott isn't around, imagining he is here, pressing deep inside of them with his thick cock, fucking them open like an man possessed, searching the depths of their body for relief. He can be cold and methodical, hands on their shoulders, nestled between their thighs, hips moving forcefully, balls slapping hard against their ass, his face, as opposed to when he's feeling tender, concentrated and focused. On days like this, Bloodhound knows that something is haunting him, perhaps the face of a victim, or the tears of a widow, on the news. At times like these, Bloodhound merely tips their head back and lets him do what he wants, what he needs, because they know words aren't enough. 

Sex works just fine as another form of communication. And even at his most distracted, Elliott fucks with the single minded determination to get both himself and his partner off within the closest time possible. And when he's thrusting as hard he can, shoving Bloodhound further up against the mattress, almost to the point where they risk a head injury against the violently trembling headboard, his partner has never finished after him. All they can do is push back as a counter point to the thrusts and hold on for dear life, their knees obscenely wide open, their hands digging scratches into Elliott's back. 

They look at the man's face the entire time, watching his eyes, seeing their desperation, their guilt, their anger.

And also his affection. 

His adoration for the person he's currently fucking into their mattress like a wild animal, a predator tearing into its prey. 

Bloodhound is always the hunter.

At times like this, they don't mind being the prey.

They trust Elliott, and when he fucks them like this, as if trying to kill them, stabbing at the most vulnerable point of their body, it makes something in their heart clench with both fear and almost unbearable arousal.  

The drag of Elliott's cock, sloppy, wet, hard, eager to prod and poke and stretch, is one they imagine when he's been gone for too long, and they're in the mood not to cuddle, but to feel something more ferocious.

More wild and unabated, passion more powerful than a supernova. 

The gentle touches are nice, as are the delicate butterfly kisses, and hand around their waist. 

But the other times, when Elliott isn't whispering sweet nothings in their ears, when he's only grunting, occasionally whispering filthy words, asking Hound if they enjoy being helpless underneath him, if they enjoy being nothing more than his toy, are just as nice. 

Even better, when the combination of Elliott's darker fantasies, of handcuffing Hound to the mattress, and taking them whenever he wants, while Hound pretends to struggle to get away, of putting a collar on their neck, and walking them around the house naked, nothing more than a special, exotic pet, and his energetic, muscular, attractive young body come together to create an explosion of feelings. His love is beautiful, something Hound has never experienced with any other human being ever before, but his passion is another creature, something which takes them by the throat and sometimes leaves cuts and bruises (that he will kiss the next morning, stroke absentmindedly as though forgetting who had made them).

Bloodhound does not consider themselves a particularly lascivious or perverted-minded person. 

But where Elliott is concerned, they are an eager pupil, a disciple at the alter of Elliott Witt's fantasies. 

They like when he spanks their ass hard, pulls on their hair while he rubs his cock over their cheeks and lips, cums on their chest after vigorously rubbing his penis against their opening, but never penetrating it. They like being bent over the edge of the bed, legs spread wise, ass presented for him to consider and view while they close their eyes, face straight ahead, hands cuffed behind their back. They like his eyes on their body, on their ass, and love the feeling of his fingers, prying into them, pushing and experimenting, gentle at first, but rough as soon as their body begins to respond, slicking his finger tips with their eagerness. 

These things spark a fire in their chest that they had never known existed.

But only for Elliott. 

Only because he loves them, because he is turned on by Bloodhound's body, in love with Bloodhound's mind, and wanting desperately to both trust them and have them trust him back. 

That is why they do not feel afraid or uncomfortable when Elliott is pressed up against their back, cock rubbing against their moist ass crack, pointing downwards but refusing to give them what they want. 

"What do you say?" Elliott teases, his voice velvety, sultry in a way he knows will drive Hound wild. 

"Please!" they beg. "Please, Elliott, please do it!"

"What, exactly?" 

"Put your cock in me. Please, fuck me as hard as you can."

"Or what?" Elliott taunts, challenges. 

"Nothing," they whisper. "I am yours to do with as you please. Just please. _Have mercy on me_." 

That usually gets him. 

And Bloodhound's back trembles as he pushes in from behind, because fucking like a couple of dogs rutting in a back alley has its charms. 

They like him on top, they like him behind.

On top, his hips fire like pistols, his chest against theirs, their hearts beating wildly against one another in between thrusts, whether Elliott surges forward, and Bloodhound eagerly meets him. Behind him, Elliott gives and gives everything he has, all of his energy, the considerable power of his core into fucking his partner, while Bloodhound pushes back against him, but usually just tries to brace their body for impact, taking him all in and giving up their body for the night. 

Half of the human population perhaps cannot fathom the joys of surrender, but there is nothing sweeter than the release that comes with trusting someone else to take what they want from  you, but knowing they are also giving you a part of themselves in the process. 

In knowing that no matter who's on top, who's in control, the relationship that contains the fiery energy of the coupling is stable. 

A neutral ground of respect and mutual trust. 

But such words slip by Hound on nights where they miss Elliott's hips and his ass and his gorgeous mouth.

Social justice, gender relations, male, female, nonbinary, receiving, giving, power dynamics, all of these things cease to matter, to even exist, in the small space left  between them and Elliott.

When they're with him, in this bed, and their clothes are off, or about to be, there's nothing that matters to them, but the hunt. 

The battle between bodies, a conflict that is somehow, simultaneously harmonious. 

The drag, of Elliott's tongue over their wetness, licking their every crevasse clean, his mouth cracking open to blow a soft gust of cold air over their hole, making them shiver. 

Sometimes when he's talking, about the weather, the Apex Games, politics, whatever, Hound will stare at their tongue.

Think about how good it felt, how warm and slippery and soft, yet powerful, when it thrusts as deeply into them as it can go, making them see stars and grip Elliott's hair in their fingers, accidentally and almost involuntarily pulling him deeper. 

Sometimes he laughs, and they moan, almost sob, at the accompanying vibration. 

The drag could drive a person mad.

They lie in the dark, propped up on pillows, their hands having to do while Elliott is gone.

They lie in bed and imagine his smell, his breath, hot on their face, on their chest.

They spread their legs and thrust their fingers inside of themselves, thinking of all of the filthy things they've done in this bed with him. 

Pretend Elliott is watching somewhere, smiling to himself with his cheeky, predatory grin. 

_Good Hound. Good dog._

In the day time, they would laugh. Tell him that if he calls them a dog again, he will be sleeping outside in a kennel. 

But at night, when their minds are darker, and their hearts more fragile, balanced between the human desire for order and chaos, it is appropriate. 

They reach as deeply as they can, but it's never deep enough, especially not when they're imagining Elliott. 

But it will do until he gets back. 

They brush against the spot that Elliott always seek out, the ultimate apex hunter cornering its long sought after prey, and their toes clench against their mattress, just as they do when their lover finds it. 

Their back arches, their hips thrusting upwards, into their fingers, but they imagine it's Elliott instead. 

And they clench their inner walls tighter, then feel them clench automatically as they finally orgasm, to nothing but the thought of everything Elliott has ever done to them.

At the thought of what he will do, when they tell him about this tomorrow, as he crosses the threshold into their shared home. 

Perhaps one day, when they're old and tired, they will simply sit beside one another, holding hands on a veranda swing, staring off into the sunset.

They will kiss gently, affectionately, drag their bodies together only to snuggle and watch old movies, maybe slow dance under twinkling lights. 

But now, when they are young, passionate, wild spirits come together despite all odds, they will enjoy their youth, their powerful bodies with high stamina and low refractory periods. 

Bloodhound sighs, hands sticky, area between their thighs slick with sweat and other fluids, a pleasurable ache burning at the core of their being, and rumbling through their chest in a rush of endorphins. 

They roll over, feel the drag of silk against their hip, and smile to themselves. 

They imagine how it will feel tomorrow, when Elliott comes home. 

**Author's Note:**

> End scene. 
> 
> Imma just slide my way on out of here before the police catch me for the crime of being horny.


End file.
